Shaymaker on a Train
John Gunnison Shaymaker stared out the window, watched the countryside speed by. Countryside he had known well. Countryside he had watched his fellow soldiers die on. His eyes sagged shut again and when he opened them, he couldn't recognize where he was any longer because the train had entered a populated area. Buildings, houses, factories, warehouses all whizzed by like some chaotic nightmare. He'd been to New York City in 1852 and it was nothing in comparison with what he was seeing in this time period. He let his head bump against the window and rest against the cool glass. The unbelievably smooth glass. All the wonders this world had to show him, all the lights and motors and electric devices... but it was the simple things like smooth glass, ice cubes and soft butt-wiping paper that really impressed him. But he'd give all of it to get back. His eyes closed and John was back... in middle of battle. He held his saber aloft in his left hand, waving it desperately as a rallying signal to what was left of his division. With his right hand, he dragged what was left of his Corporal, trying to make it back to cover. The chaos was overwhelming. More dirt in the air than there seemed on the earth. More smoke swirling around than if Hell itself had belched. And more torn bodies and blood than Shaymaker ever thought possible. He could taste and feel it all in his mouth. His sense of smell had gratefully been buried under an avalanche of gunpowder from the first volley. But the symphony of screaming, human and horse, accompanied by sporadic gun fire, distant pops of the Confederacy cannons followed up by ground-shaking thuds, his own cannon's answering explosions and whistling harmony... all joined together in Shaymaker's ears to make deafness seem a welcome tragedy. And then one impact near his feet temporarily granted this respite. It threw him to the ground hard, he dropped both his saber and his Corporal's hand. His ears now ringing so loudly he could not regain his balance. He staggered and wiped at his eyes, now filled with what he hoped was just soil. His gloves were caked with something else so he tucked them under each arm and pulled them off one by one then returned to clean his eyes with his fingers. Both still worked as he surveyed his immediate surroundings. His Corporal was gone. Just the arm and then hand Shaymaker had been clinging to were near him. His own uniform was covered in blood, but aside from his own bruised ribs received when his horse was hit and threw him, Shaymaker had no bleeding injuries. The 15-year-old Corporal who had run messages for the Lieutenant to the Captain for the last 3 months was gone. Shaymaker tried to see beyond the smoke but only saw flashes from muskets and rifles. He turned towards the incline up which he had been heading and dragged himself to his knees and began to crawl. He saw 2 figures emerge out of the swirling dirty cloud and immediately recognized them as Union men. He called out but heard nothing of his own voice. But one turned and looked his direction. Shaymaker waved and saw the other man look and immediately raise his rifle and aimed it at him. A flash from the barrel and he imagined feeling the lead ball smashing through his head any second now. His eyes sank shut in surrender to fate, death or whatever was going to come and claim him. Moments later, he opened one and realized he wasn't dead. He saw the two men, one in a dead run straight at him, the other reloading his weapon. The running soldier pointed behind Shaymaker and just as he turned to look an immense force slammed into the side of his head and knocked him cold. Shaymaker's eyes unwillingly pulled themselves open to see the whizzing city lights sting them. Night had fallen and the cool glass of the window had become cold. He pulled his head back and leaned against the head rest. The rumble of the train was familiar again and the battle was gone.